


the scene is now

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF, The Hobbit (Movie) RPF
Genre: Amanda is Smarter Than Everyone Else, Being Handsy, Being Lost, Being Ridiculous in Your 30s, Break Up, Emotional Baggage, Filming, Flirting, Growing Up, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Lord Cumberbatch, Martin Freehands, Martin's Potty Mouth, New Zealand, Not Knowing What You Want, Not Really Cheating, On Set, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They told him: "It will change you, if you let it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the scene is now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [embroiderama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is so not real, nor do I really want it to be. If your real name matches any of the "characters" listed above, turn around, do not pass go, and please accept my apology in advance.
> 
> Warning: Everyone is in their now-current relationships, and Martin's children are mentioned and briefly appear in this work.
> 
> This has been [translated into German](http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/53fb482e0000358c92872e9/1/The-Scene-Is-Now-Szenenwechsel-Ubersetzung-) by the lovely eurydike.

“Did I wake you?” It's 3:23am on a Tuesday and the party is only now starting to wind down; the bathroom Benedict's ducked into is quite posh. His collar chafes his neck, and the hand that's not pressing his phone to his ear tugs at his buttons, loosens his necktie.

A puff of air resolves on the other end of the phone into a gentle laugh. “Ben? Shouldn't I be asking you that question? It's nearly tea time here. You all right?”

“Yeah, I'm all right, sorry, Martin, sorry—” Benedict's interrupted by the crash of a door down the hall, the thud followed by raucous laughter and a chorus of voices calling for him. “Talk soon, all right, see you in a few weeks, sorry, best to the family.”

Benedict hangs up, pretending he doesn't hear the rise and fall of interrupted conversation on the other end of the line. He studiously ignores his reflection in the mirror above the sink, feels the edges of his phone cut into his palm.

*

There are a handful of texts waiting for him when he wakes up, crashed out in his own bed (a plus), 15 minutes before he's meant to be at Spencer Hart for a fitting (a negative). A few seconds of heartfelt cursing leads into a throat-juddering cough, and then it's a fit, the hand clutching his phone to his chest, the other on the door jamb of the bathroom, bent over as he yanks air down into his lungs. He drinks from the tap, the tepid water a trickle of relief. Three paracetamol shook into the palm of his hands, over his tongue with a handful of water, while he calls for a car.

Teeth cleaned, scrubbed twice, the clammy feeling of vodka dissipating on his skin as he showers quickly. He dresses, looks longingly at the kettle on his way out the door.

He forgets about the texts.

*

The driver that waits on the curb tilts his head in greeting and gets him where he needs to be in less than 30 minutes, a miracle this time of day. Benedict's practiced in his haste, rushing just enough to appear important but not enough to appear desperate. The bell to the shop buzzes under his fingertips and he's pushing through the door, all rounded vowels and apologies.

His phone rings three times while he's in various states of deshabille. All three callers leave messages.

*

“I just want what you have, I'm so bloody jealous of it, I can't even understand why, you're a fantastic fucking person and I just—” Benedict sucks in a breath, presses his fingers against the thighs of his tuxedo trousers. They've had a few drinks, probably too many. They're crammed into the back of a hired car, Amanda in the middle. “How the fuck do you do it? You can't be real, you've got to be a fucking robot or something—” There's something close to a tickle fight that ensues, Benedict leaning across Amanda, his fingers finding their way under Martin's collar, against the soft, yielding flesh of his neck. Martin giggles, shaking with hiccups, Amanda laughing and her shoulder against Benedict's chest, and Benedict is happy for him, for them, he's just— “You fucking arsehole with your fucking BAFTA and your gorgeous woman and precocious children and you're probably the most reliable shag in London—”

Amanda's palm is warm against Benedict's lips and she leans against him, smiles, her teeth flashing dangerously. “Wouldn't you like to know.”

Benedict catches the wrist of the offending hand with a brace of his fingers, pulls it away far enough to nip at the flesh of her palm.

*

Martin has always made it look easy to touch; his hands clapping Benedict on the shoulders in greeting, fingers looping around his wrist to check for time, hips nudging when they're queued up for tea. He initiates this casual intimacy everywhere: in readings, in between takes, when they're waiting for a set-up, even those precious few times they manage to escape to the local _(“Not going to your local, Lord Cumberbatch, are you nuts? The fucking Ivy? Who says that's their local? I'd smack everyone on sight and then you'd be fucked explaining that to the black-and-whites.”)_ to have a drink ( _“Just fucking one, I hate going out, don't you dare get pissed enough that I have to mind you.”_ ) and shout mindless barbs at each other about the football game _(“Do you even know the game, Ben? Thought they kept you busy with cricket.”)_ until their glasses are dry. And it's not just Benedict, it's everyone, and Benedict watches them, sees their reactions (Una relaxes under Martin's gentle hands on hers, Rupert beams from a clap on the back.) and desperately tries to parse the meaning.

And Benedict can't get used to the warm presses of skin, the shock of Martin's hands on him, his body _near_ his, constant and ongoing. (“Christ, you're jumpy,” Martin had said at first, early on in their partnership. He stepped back, his palms open. “You need me to leave off?” Already starving for it, Benedict begged off, something about being distracted, being lost in his own head, “No, no, it's all right,” and Martin had narrowed his eyes, but put his hands back on Benedict's shoulders, the ghost of his previous touch turning solid and firm.“Well, come back down to us every once and a while, all right?”) And while heat still flares along his collarbone every time Martin curls his fingers against the soft secret place at the join of Benedict's elbow when pulling him to set, Martin's palms against the hard jut of his hip as he leans over to reach for his tea, Benedict learns to school it, conjugating verbs in Latin in his head with his fingers against his lips as if he's in deep thought.

Martin's touches turn firmer over time, his hugs shape into full body presses, and there's the wrap party for season two. Benedict is just drunk enough to let his eyes flare and his lips part when Martin finishes a particular raucous comment with a playful grip just a shade too high on Benedict's thigh. And Benedict realizes: He's never been touched this much without it being a prelude to something else (sex), something _more_ (lots of sex) _._

And Martin's mouth shapes into an _“Oh!”_ , the sound swallowed up in the noise of the crowd, and Benedict leans in, uses his height and Martin (bless him) doesn't flinch, doesn't loosen his hold on Benedict's thigh, and it's at the last moment that Benedict detours, presses his mouth close to Martin's ear, pitches his voice low.

“You are making me mental,” he says, and it's meant to be seductive, a prelude, a means to the end that he didn't even know he wanted – probably doesn't want, but he doesn't know how else to react, has no frame of reference for this, for Martin.

The retort is quick, seamless, punctuated by a squeeze of fingers, his palm still a hot presence through the wool of Benedict's trousers. “That's all on you, mate.”

And then Martin's hand is gone and Benedict feels something akin to rage (disappointment, rejection, fear) well up for a brief moment before he's being tickled – _tickled_ – and Martin's howling with laughter and then Benedict is tipping over into Mark's lap and then Rupert jumps in and there's a pile of arms and legs and Stephen scarpers away from what had been a safe haven at the end of the table, words like “effrontery” and “madness” ringing out.

They run out of steam (Mark's scarf is somehow on Martin's head, Benedict's suit jacket is missing a button, Rupert's slid down to the floor) quickly, the combination of drink, age, and sheer exhaustion taking its toll.

Benedict's palms itch as they separate. “I'm going for a smoke, you nutters.”

“In the back, please.” Mark's delicately rearranges his scarf, signals for another round. “You're giving Sue an ulcer.”

“Yes, yes,” he replies, absently patting his pockets for his lighter.

And then Martin's got a hold of his wrist. “All right?”

Their fingers turn soft against each other's wrists, and there's a brief clasp of fingertips. “Yeah, yeah.”

*

They told him:

“ _It will change you, if you let it.”_

“I want it to, I do, I am ready for this opportunity, ready for—”

They told him:

“ _You will never work harder, nor smarter. You will never experience anything like this again; are you ready for that?”_

“I am, I want it, I want to—”

They told him:

“ _It's not just about what you are doing now, it's about how it will affect you tomorrow, next month, next year, in a decade, for the rest of your life.”_

“I want this, I'm ready, please, I'll—”

*

“Did you get it?” Martin's smiling, grinning, Benedict can tell through the phone line. “Of course your fucking got it!”

“I got it.” It's then, really then that Benedict lets his joy cut across the fatigue he's been carrying around, takes a deep breath without the aid of nicotine, and just laughs.

“Fucking brilliant! You're going to be a fucking dragon!”

“I know, I can't believe—”

“Oh, I fucking believe it, mate, Jesus, this is going to be _amazing,_ can't wait for it.”

“I know, I know!”

*

Before Benedict boards the plane for New Zealand, there are last minute pick-ups and a frankly grueling pair of days in ADR for _Parade's,_ and then he's as free as it's going to get or one whole week – not counting the alarming press schedule for _Sherlock._

He does sleep, takes that first day and sleeps through two meals, wakes for tea and a slice of toast. He's meant to take Anna to dinner, consolation for his absence over the past few weeks. She doesn't say anything, though, not like Olivia, who knew well enough to push, to acknowledge, to make sure he took accountability; still too new, he reflects. And he likes her, likes Anna, the tilt of her lips when she says something fresh, the way her fingertips dig into his arms and leave bruises, and how the inside of her thighs cushion his hips.

He tests it, asks her questions that he knows are ridiculous, breaks dates in ways that he would have found alarmingly rude just a year ago. She bends to it, handles it graciously.

“Let's just see where this goes, no expectations,” she tells him early on. They're casual, having fun, their physical attraction keen. “I understand you have responsibilities,” she says the first time he shows up late – later than usual. “Do what you need to do,” he hears and acts accordingly.

*

There's a sharp satisfaction of being so close to making it, being good enough, the definition of _enough_ and _good_ imprinted back at Harrow, when he was all alone and surrounded by boys with trust funds and knowing his grandmother was paying his tuition. There were moments when he hated it, hated his parents for sending him there, hated his grandmother for paying for it. Manchester was his choice, his decision, and he was relieved when his parents didn't fight it (much); now he wonders if he was looking for a different sort of reaction. He always did like a good broken piece of crockery.

He's older now, and more learned and understands why Harrow was important, and _“I think it's a good idea for ours, don't you?”_ he'd ask Olivia and she'd go carefully still under his hands, quiet, her eyes never changing, and she'd say nothing. He'd push her, and when he asked her to marry him every day for _two straight weeks_ and she kept saying no and he kept asking _“Why not?”_ and she kept saying _“I love you,”_ and walking away. They'd go to bed when they were actually in the same place at the same time, but they wouldn't sleep, restless push-pull-tug against each other, sex without speaking, playing against their history, the institutional knowledge of each other's bodies, and they'd make each other shake and spill and it was good, right, they were good together ( _“Why not, why won't you say yes?”_ ) and sometimes, in the witching hour, Liv would say things, pieces of truth ( _“You don't even know what you're asking,”_ and _“This is not what I want my forever to look like,”_ and “ _You're lazy, I'm lazy, that's why this is—” “I'm not lazy, I'm working my arse off, for you, for us, “—for yourself, you don't fool me,”_ alongside things like _“I love you,”_ and _“I trust you,”_ and “ _You have an amazing potential for grace,”_ and _“We need to end it, I need to get away from—” “—from me, like I'm some terrible abuser, like I've taken the best years of your life from you,”_ _“They were the best years, weren't they?”_ ) and the fight would just leave him, evaporate into nothingness. They slumped against each other, and he felt the curve of her smile against his neck, his cheek, and she told him she loved him _(“I do._ ”) and that her solicitor would contact his to sort out the flat and then she was gone and for the most part it was like nothing happened, because they still emailed and texted and he was gone six days out of seven.

He doesn't really miss her until he meets Anna, who enjoys going out and being on his arm and they don't talk, not really, but it's good. She's gorgeous and it's been ages since he even dated, and it's enough to be attracted to her to put the effort in to woo her, because there's sex (so much sex) and it's different, with someone who doesn't know your body, who has learned on someone else's body, and not all of it works, but the bits that do ( _“Oh my fucking christ, do that again!”_ ) are brilliant and the bits that don't are easily remedied. He doesn't know that she was named after her great aunt, doesn't know that she fell down the stairs when she was 12 and knocked out a front tooth, doesn't know that she can't ride a bike, but that she can ride a horse. And it's okay for now, because that's what he needs, even if it's not what he wants, because he's lickerish for it all, for the world, _for everything_ , and he's almost there—

*

And so he goes to New Zealand, and he's pushed, pushed past where the Creature brought him, physically and mentally, and he's alone on this one, no one to share the load.

They test against a green screen because Martin's on the other side of the island for the first few days and Benedict's meant to see a hobbit in his mind's eye, scared but resolute, but he keeps seeing Martin instead, hard eyes that see right through him, right through everything he says.

_(“Jesus Christ, Martin!” Freezing cold hands snuck into the pockets of warmth under his arms, fingers crooked in mirth as they shuddered together in the cold air._

_Martin's grin is a slash of pink against the fog of his breath as he leapt out of arm's reach. “Woke you up, didn't I?”_

_Benedict's surprise resolved into a cough, then a series of coughs, and then a fit of coughs._

“ _You all right?” Then Martin's hands were back on him, palms searching for fever. “I'm calling the medic.”)_

And the lies don't work on Martin; hasn't since Benedict worked himself into a nice case of pneumonia.

Benedict remembers, in a flash, that look on Martin's face that wretched morning after the A&E doctor startled when listening to his lung function and gave him a pneumonia diagnosis. Martin him swear, made him _“promise on all that was good and holy”_ that _“you won't do that again, say something, ask for help, you fucking prat,”_ and Benedict had agreed, agreed in a way that he didn't think he was ready for, but he's kept that promise up until—

*

“It'll get easier.” The weight of PJ's hand on Benedict's arm is blunted by the motion-capture suit.

*

“Once Martin's back, you'll see.” Andy helps Benedict stretch between takes, gently nudging him this way and that and back again. Benedict drinks in Andy's quiet direction in the shine of the unnatural lighting.

*

“Christ, you're bendy,” Aidan says around a mouthful of apple.

*

There's a dinner, a welcoming _(“Bring an overnighter, we'll go into the studio together in the morning. Finally on the same set together, fuck!”)_ at Martin's house, even though it's three days into Benedict's temporary residency. _(“Sorry, mate, PJ had me on the other side of the bloody island, soaked to the bone for a good week. Had to be done.” “No, no, it's fine, no worries.”)_ It's raining like a bastard, and in the five seconds it takes for Benedict to get from his car door to the front landing, he's nearly soaked through. He flicks water from his fingers, knocks on the door.

“It's open!” Martin shouts and Benedict shoulders it open in concert with the snap-crackle of a VOIP connection, childlike shouts made tinny from the computer speakers.

Martin's face splits into a grin and he waves Benedict over. “Just water, who cares—” The hug is fierce, intense, and Benedict finds himself crouched down, his nose mashed up against Martin's shoulder, finger tips biting through his jacket.

“Your hair, your hair!” “Where did it go?!” “Did it hurt?” “Can we touch it?” The volume is piercing, so Benedict hunkers down, peers into the tiny webcam at the top of Martin's laptop screen.

“You can touch it when we're back on the same continent!” Amanda's voice cuts through the melee, and shoos them away with expert hands. “Say goodbye to your father, and then fresh clothes, jimjams in the hamper, clean your teeth, then come back down here.”

“Bye, Dad!” The kids scatter, the connection choppy as they blur away.

“FIVE MINUTES!” Then then picture resolves into Amanda, hair pulled into a messy bun, robe pulled tightly around her. “Took it all off, eh?” Amanda's tone is pleasant, but noncommittal.

“Had to, was a manky mess.” He straightens up, shakes his coat off mindful of the wine in his shoulder bag. Martin plucks the coat from his hands and disappears down the hall. Amanda looks at him, assessing, the camera picking up on her narrowed eyes. “What? You don't like it?” He hates that he sounds insecure, wanting.

“Ah, don't let her get to you, that's how she shows affection.” Martin's back, suddenly, one arm snaked under Benedict's arm to form a solid presence against his back. Martin pulls him close, and Amanda gives in, grins, lifts a mug to her lips and sips.

“Still too skinny,” Amanda says, the words muffled against the cup, but crisply enunciated. “You all right?”

His stock retort is stuck somewhere in his chest, and there's a beat before the truth bubbles up, wants to jut free in the evening light.

Then the takeaway arrives, breaks the moment.

“Behave,” Martin says, makes for the door to settle the bill.

Amanda leans in close, quirks an eyebrow at him. “How's Anna like the new hair?”

“What?” he says, feeling his cheeks already pinked up. He scrubs at the nape of his neck, suddenly self-conscious all over again. “It's— she's fine with—”

A peal of laughter, bright, even through the tiny speakers. “She hasn't seen it yet, has she?” She wipes a hand across her mouth. “Oh, Benedict, you clot.”

The door clicks closed and then Martin's dropping the densely packed bag of food on the table, swiveling the laptop around so he can see the screen. “Leave him be, darling, he wasn't hugged enough as a child.”

There's some chatter about school schedules and “follow up with that piano fellow, yeah?” and “Same time tomorrow?” and goodbyes and air kisses and waves, and when Martin clicks the laptop closed, he's smiling.

“So glad you're finally here.” Martin's voice is warm, like his arms around Benedict's shoulders, the hug intense for a too brief moment. “Come on, food, then I'll show you the place.”

*

They eat the takeaway, talking around forkfuls of food, spoons scraping the containers clean of sauce. Benedict feels something unknot in his throat, his chest rising and falling with great cracks of laughter. Martin spills wine onto his plate during a rather energetic recount of a story involving Andy and a stray cat; he pauses mid-sentence, mops it up with a handful of naan and Benedict just howls.

They finish the wine with their feet up on the coffee table and the television on. The satellite jumps and jiggles with the storm outside, the rain going in stops and starts, and once the wine is gone, Martin pulls Benedict up from the couch. The walk through dark rooms to the back of the house, where there's an entire wall of windows, floor to ceiling, overlooking a small valley, the inky black of the rain clouds swallowing up the horizon. The moon shines weakly, then gleams as the clouds rush past.

It looks completely otherworldly, like nothing Benedict's seen before outside of movie screens and fever dreams.

“It's gorgeous, normally.” Martin says, his voice quiet, and his fingertips reverent against the window pane.

“It's gorgeous now.” Benedict breathes, a cloud of condensation dusting the window.

Another quiet moment, and then the rain starts to rail again. Martin shakes with a bone-cracking yawn , Benedict sees his reflection in the window. “Come on, let me show you were you're kipping.”

The room is quiet and cozy, and there's a small en suite with a sink, toilet, and shower attached. “Should have everything you need in there,” Martin says, turning on the bedside lamp. “Need an alarm?”

“No,” Benedict says, fingers against the curve of his phone in his pocket. He has 32 texts, five voicemails, and countless emails that need looking after. “I'm all right.”

*

He flicks through the texts in the bathroom, answers the ones he must (Agent, Publicist) and ignores the others (Tom, Stylist). He unpacks his kit, props the phone on top of the extra toilet roll balanced on the back of the toilet and listens to the voicemails on speaker. Anna, his mother, his Agent (text took care of that), Anna, hang-up. Call log shows the hang-up was Olivia. Anna's voicemails sound increasingly generic, vague comments about her day, how much she misses him and hopes he's enjoying himself. He deletes all the messages, runs the tap, testing the temperature with his fingers. He strips down to his pants, washes his face in the lukewarm water. He cuts the water, the room quiet as he shakes out a hand towel, pressing it against his face. Dropping it to the lip of the sink, he scoops up his toothbrush, smears paste on the bristles. He starts to scrub his teeth, nearly fumbles the entire mess to the floor when his phone vibrates with a call.

His fingers go to the ignore feature automatically, but the ID says “Abbington, Amanda” and he stops, wipes his index finger against the towel and engages the call.

“This isn't a sprint for him, you know?” Amanda's voice cuts through before he can even say hello.

“Sorry?” Benedict straightens up, toothbrush in one hand, phone in the other. Foam drips down his wrist, his gums tingle. “Hold on.” He bends back down, spits, rinses, wipes at his mouth with wet fingers, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “You all right?” he asks, the curve of porcelain cutting into his hip as he tries to mop himself up one-handed, looking in the mirror, searching for splatters of toothpaste on his chin.

“It's contagious, your lack of caring.” He splutters at that, and she continues on, the transocean delay evident. “Tell me the truth, before today, before what Martin just fed you, when was the last time you had a proper meal—” He tries again, and she barrels through. “A proper meal, sitting down like a human being at a table, not in a moving vehicle, not standing up in your kitchen with mismatched cutlery, or finger foods scarfed down while charming some random. Tell me, if you can?”

And it's the _“if you can?”_ that kills him, that makes his spine soften against the blow of her words, and he know he can't tell her. The quiet echoes against the tile. “I—” he takes a deep breath, turns away from the mirror. He can't lie to her. Not her. Not then, not now, not ever. “I don't know.”

Her voice is kinder, gentler now. “It's not a sprint for him, he's not here for just a few days, flying in for his bits and then moving on to the next thing. I can't allow you to act this way here, not here. Back in London, it was fine, there was a fairly close end in sight – could let him push himself past what he knows is right. But there, it's not, because it's not home and I'm not there right now to check him, to make sure he's all right. And, Ben, it's not a few days or even weeks, this is months and for the rest of his life and it's a marathon. I know you, I know you can be so fucking selfish with him, with everyone, because you want it all. And I can't let you do this to him or—”

“I know,” he finally says, his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. “I know.”

“It's not easy, you know, having a family, being him,” she sighs and he suddenly feels like a complete and utter selfish arse. “I know you think it is, want it so badly, but Benedict, it's not.”

“I know, really.” He screws his eyes shut, his free hand fisted against his forehead. “I'm...trying.”

“You have an amazing capacity to love someone else,” Amanda says, finally, and he's suddenly shook to the core with the memory of the first time he made Olivia laugh, the way she didn't press her palm against her mouth, just let the sound ring out and bounce off the walls of the grotty green room they'd camped in, waiting for the house to settle and the curtain to go up. He slumps against the shower door, missing her – no, not her, _them,_ what they _had been,_ what they _could have been_ – fiercely.

“I just want you to use it.”

“I do love, I love—”

“No, you love _love,_ you've got to learn how to give it—”

“Yes, I know.” He takes a great, shuddering breath. “I do.”

*

The next morning, Benedict finds Martin awake in the kitchen at an ungodly hour, hunched over a cup of tea and bowl of porridge and what passes as the morning paper at a tiny table in the kitchen. A few slices of crusty bread sit on a plate next to a tub of butter, a small pot of jam.

“You all right?” Martin asks, but the cadence is off – it's not his generic greeting, it's tinged with something else.

“Fine.” The answer is rote, quick. Benedict huffs into his tea cup, gets hot water lapping at his upper lip. He pulls his mug away and licks at the tender skin. “Shit, why, did Amanda talk to you?” He realizes that he sounds like an idiot. “Sorry, it's early and that's a frankly ridiculous question.”

“You're damned right it is,” Martin says, news print crinkling as he turns the page. “And don't answer a question with a question. What's on?”

“There's— nothing. Just. Nothing.” Benedict averts his eyes, sips at his tea, hasty and quick even though he knows better, scalds his tongue for his trouble. “I'm fine. Really.” He clears his throat and chances a look up, and Martin's normally expressive face is unreadable in the weak morning light.

“You know that doesn't work with me.” Martin breaks first, pushes away from the table to top up his cup. “You can't con a con artist.” His back is turned, but his meaning is clear.

“I know.” Benedict swallows hard, feels his tongue loosen against the roof of his mouth. “There's no artifice in you, Martin.”

Martin stills, hand on the kettle.

Benedict skims his knife in the butter tub, scrapes it against the bread. The noise is ugly, loud. “Sometimes I think I've enough for all of us.”

There's a long beat, silence broken by the rush of water into Martin's cup. He turns and Benedict crunches through the piece of toast. Their eyes meet, and Martin's shift, turn soft. He lifts the cup to his lips.

“Well, we'll just have to work on that, won't we?”

Benedict smiles.

*

Benedict spends his time on set wrapped tightly in a motion-capture suit, drinking bottle after bottle of water shoved at him by well meaning PAs. He sleeps when he can, unspoken words sitting on his chest like a weight. He answers the phone when his mother calls. He calls Anna back, but she's on her way to work, and _“The Tube's a mess, got to find the right bus, I'll get you later, yeah? Miss you!”_ So he just takes a picture of his hair and sends it to her via SMS and she responds back with a _“You did NOT!!!!!!!!!”_ attached to a picture of her face, wide-eyed in reaction, her black hair popping against the red of the bus. He likes her, he does, they have a good time. It's just that he's gone all the time and Amanda's right, he's got to figure it out and just—

*

Martin comes home with him after the first week, says he wants to check out his digs. _(“Get a curry, there's a good place that delivers in your area, and a sixer and we'll watch something awful and I'll call for a car if it gets late.”)_ They eat in the living room, takeaway cartons cluttering up the coffee table. Martin puts his phone on speaker when Amanda calls so the kids can say good morning, and they all end up shouting over each other. The crest of Martin's hair sweeps against Benedict's cheek as they lean into each other, over the phone cradled in Martin's hands. When they sign off, it's easy for Benedict lean into the hug that Martin offers.

“One more week, and they're here,” Benedict whispers, and Martin's hug turns fierce. “You must miss them terribly.”

“You have no idea, mate.”

They watch the news shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, and Benedict startles awake at a particularly loud advert, the press of a blanket across his chest and over his thighs. He fumbles with the remote, ticks the television off as he pushes the blanket off and away. His chest feels warm, and he licks away a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

The detritus of their meal is gone, and Benedict can see Martin moving around the kitchen. The tinkle of spoon on mug is comforting, and he gratefully accepts the tea Martin offers when he comes back into the room, another mug steaming in his hand.

They sit close and drink in silence, broken only by the soft tap at the door.

“That'd be the car,” Martin says, mug down for the brief moment it takes him to stand up, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other on Benedict's thigh. He disappears into the kitchen and the mug sounds against the counter. He comes back, scoops his jacket up from the chair near the door. “You all right?”

“I'm good,” Benedict replies, and very nearly means it.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Embroiderama, Happy Yuletide! I hope this, um, worked for you. My idea of hurt-comfort is a bit...unique, I guess. Have a wonderful holiday season and fantastic new year!
> 
> The title is from [here](http://www.magnificentruin.com/post/14308154820/the-scene-is-now). This story wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for **Mira.** No, really. Everything that is wrong with this is my fault, and most of the good things are thanks to her midwifery. I have to be honest: My characterization of BC is very much inspired by **Berry.** Let's be real, though — that BC has a wonderful coolness and coldness to him that is absolutely flipping brilliant, while I've got this confused, emotionally vulnerable manchild that doesn't want to leave me alone. In my head, there is a connection. I believe it has to do with the word lickerish. Anyway, ta, darlings.


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